


Best Practices

by hoomhum



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muggle!Mycroft, Overworked Greg, Slow Burn, Wizard!Greg, anthea ships it, no knowledge of HP needed, oh god the slow slow burn of it, this author does not support jkr, this author supports trans rights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24170050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum
Summary: Greg Lestrade works in an isolating position, straddling the divide between muggle and magic law enforcement. When his most recent case takes one too many twists, he turns to Mycroft Holmes for help, and accidentally reveals much more than he should have.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 46
Kudos: 83
Collections: Mystrade Is Magic





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Brief trigger warning for the first chapter, in which a familiar character is obliviated in order to maintain the secrecy of the magic world. 
> 
> Many thanks to those who helped to polish this and who cheered me on along the way! Especially meansgirlwrites and bookjunkiecat! Thanks also to Paia_Loves_Pie for Mystrade is Magic May, which encouraged me to take this out of storage and dust it off!
> 
> To those who know me, yes this is another WIP. Yes, I have many. But these are the Inside Times, and we must follow our joy wherever we can find it.

“Right then, what’ve you got?” Greg asked, as he approached the uniformed officer outside the walk up. As much as he appreciated that tonight’s brand of violence against humanity had occurred inside rather than out of doors in the dreary wet of March, he wasn’t very optimistic about the absent look in the man’s eyes.

“Constable Dawson?” He’d done his time in uniform, enough to know that not all the higher ups bothered to learn names. Dawson’s squashy face and brown eyes were recognizable, though, despite his absent expression.

Beside him, Greg's sergeant huffed in annoyance. Sally didn’t have much patience for ineptitude on the job, which would help her one day as she climbed the career track. Today it just made Greg’s job easier, as it meant she didn’t see the obvious signs of a fellow hit with one too many memory charms. The poor bloke just seemed a bit dim.

“Have t’ask you to move along, sir, ma’am. Police business,” the constable said, giving them a small nod once his gaze slid into focus from middle distance. “I was told to hold this scene for DI Lestrade.”

Greg offered his warrant card. “That’s me. What’ve you got?”

“Mm… you know, I don’t really remember. They all run together after a while, don’t they?”

“They really shouldn’t, Dawson,” Sally muttered. “Step aside.”

Amiably the constable let them pass into a barren entryway and then— well shit.

If he’d been cleverer, he would have made Donavon wait outside. Half the time they didn’t even arrive together, which helped in situations like this, when a body was found in a non-muggle household.

The painting on the wall was a seascape, the ocean waves crashing rhythmically against their frame, while the rest of the space was littered with other magical evidence, from the incriminating books on the shelves, discarded Daily Prophets and parchment scrolls on the table, to the large tawny owl hooting forlornly from her cage near the kitchen window.

Greg barely gave the body a glance, only long enough to register peripherally that this was not a wizard, before he pulled his own wand from the concealed false face of his watch and turned it on his sergeant.

_ Petrificus Totalus. _

_ Mobilicorpus. _

He steered her back into the entryway and patted her shoulder apologetically before beginning to process the scene himself.

If he’d known at the start of this career that it would be so isolating, he probably wouldn’t have gone through with it. He had petitioned time and time again to bring Sally into the fold, to tell her about the wizarding world so that she could assist on investigations like this one, but when it came time to balance the budget there was never, ever, anything to spare.

There was one witch in dispatch who knew to reroute him and certain constables to questionable scenes, and one wizard in the lab. The newest recruits for the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol all had to serve two years in the muggle force, which meant there were enough people in the know that Greg wasn’t single-handedly obliviating the entirety of the Metropolitan Police Service.

He was, though, single-handedly solving or attempting to solve any cases that involved magic that were deemed unworthy of the attention of the Aurors or the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol— basically anything less than dark wizardry, terrorism, or wizard on wizard crime. It kept him isolated from his team, at odds with his own boss within the CID, and generally working more cases than he could manage.

He approached the owl, unlatching the door to its cage. “You can wait in my office at the Ministry, love. Muggle Police Force Liaison Desk. Go on.”

Documenting everything was easy thanks to the camera on his phone, so he did that before beginning to make changes. Most things just had to be tweaked. The titles of the books could be changed with a quick wave of his wand. The painting and framed pictures could be frozen. He disguised and hid all evidence of magic, even going so far as to transfigure the robes in the bedroom closet and other personal effects to reflect normal Muggle household items.

Practiced as he was, it didn’t take long to tidy up and hide away the worst offenders, until whatever was left might just seem eccentric. Finally he turned his attention to the real reason the witch at dispatch and the MLEP squad constables had put him on this one— the dead woman in the middle of the sitting room.

She was in her early twenties at a guess, dressed in unremarkable muggle garb, and with no obvious wounds either magical or physical. It would be up to the pathologist to determine cause of death. His position granted him a working knowledge of most witches and wizards living in London, and she wasn’t familiar. He’d have to double check the records at the ministry to back that up, but she could be a muggle or just a witch from out of town.

“Sorry, miss,” he murmured, pulling on a pair of gloves and quickly patting her down in search of a wand. There wasn’t one on her person, but as he made to stand again he caught sight of a silver glimmer beneath the sofa table. “Gotcha!”

The wand had been snapped neatly in two, only just held together by the glinting strand of unicorn tail hair. Carefully, Greg sealed it in an evidence bag and pocketed it.

Once he had finished his sweep of the flat, he returned to Donovan, unfreezing her and performing a quick and precise  _ Obliviate _ . He’d gotten good at them.

“Alright?” he asked, when she met his gaze. “Call and find out why forensics isn’t here. Looks like we need them sharpish.”

~

Greg didn’t like to  _ Obliviate _ or  _ Confound _ members of the force, even when it was necessary. He didn’t enjoy lying to his team or making excuses, deceiving good, hardworking people who were just attempting to make sure some justice was done in the world. Some days, though, there wasn’t any way around it. Better him doing the job than his predecessor, DI Kemp, who hadn’t seen any worth in the muggle police and chose memory charms over deception so often that several constables and sergeants suffered permanent damage.

Once the scene was under control, he handed the reins over to Donovan and headed out, claiming a desire to follow up on some leads regarding the previous day's stabbing. Since this one had all the appearances of death by natural causes, she agreed and waved him off, content to stay warm and dry in the flat while he headed off into the freezing slush.

He didn’t walk for long down the wet streets toward the Tube—a good place to find a corner to apparate in—before a shining black car slowed to a stop at the kerb ahead of him. He checked his watch and swore at the time. It was well past noon.

As Greg watched the back seat window rolled down and a slim fingered hand extended from the gap, holding a foil wrapped package. Greg recognized the wrapping from a deli he frequented near the Yard. The hand waggled the sandwich enticingly before retreating and, with a small roll of his eyes, Greg approached.

“I should’ve called to reschedule our meeting,” he said as he got into the car. “Sorry. It got away from me.”

The back seat’s other occupant, Mycroft Holmes, acknowledged him with a small nod. “I’m not unfamiliar with the demands of the job keeping one occupied.” He offered Greg the sandwich. “Eat. A little birdie told me you’d be near here and as you missed our lunch reservation, I assume you could use it.”

Greg dug in gratefully, his breakfast of coffee far too many hours ago. The sandwich was still warm, and just eating it was like a magic of its own. If he hadn’t known for certain that the Holmes family were muggles he might have suspected something. It was a good thing they weren’t an old wizarding family, though, he thought. Mr Holmes could be intimidating enough without that pureblood nonsense to back it up.

But then, sometimes he brought Greg sandwiches and wasn’t very intimidating at all. It was odd, the many faces the man seemed to wear.

“Despite your schedule, it is rather pressing that we speak, however,” Mr Holmes said. “Especially after last week’s… incident.”

Ah, there it was. The sandwich was a bribe and he’d taken it, fool that he was.

“You know more about your brother’s new flatmate than I do,” Greg said, thumbing a bit of sauce from his cheek and looking round for a napkin. Mr Holmes offered him one, despite his frown. “And if you don’t, then just go bloody ask him.”

Mr Holmes looked rather sour at that.

“I’m not… fishing,” he said, after a brief pause. “I only mean to ask if I should be concerned about any arrests regarding the death of Jeff Hope.”

Greg scoffed. “Nah, that’s all well and done with. I’m a bit concerned about the  _ illegal handgun _ Watson shot him with, but no one’s going to come arrest him as long as he doesn’t go about shooting anyone else…”

“Rest assured, the handgun has always been legal, as of three days ago.”

And that’s what was bloody terrifying about Mycroft Holmes. Greg finished his sandwich thoughtfully.

“And he’s a good bloke? You’re sure that’s a good idea? He saved Sherlock’s life, but there are laws against firearms for good reason.”

“I don’t believe Dr Watson will abuse the privilege and if he does, Detective Inspector, he will be held accountable for his actions.”

“Right." Greg met his gaze. “I doubt it means much to you, coming from me, but I’ll hold you to that.”

He expected Mr Holmes to wave away his comment and give it little more acknowledgement than a raised brow. He sat there, on the other end of the seat, in his immaculate suit, commanding a pristine car and driver, the most powerful muggle in London and possibly elsewhere. He probably advised for the ministry as well, though any inquiries about his work were met with a refusal to divulge any details and a look that said Greg should know better than to ask. He probably knew both of Greg's bosses and had more strings to pull than a marionette master.

And yet, he solemnly met Greg's gaze. “I’d expect nothing less.”

The moment was broken when the car pulled to an easy stop outside of New Scotland Yard.

“Er—thanks,” Greg managed, caught off guard by both the respect he’d been shown and the consideration. “For lunch, and everything.”

“Keep in touch, Detective Inspector.” He was dismissed with a nod, and was quick to climb out, taking the trash from his lunch with him.

It was odd, he thought, as he made his way to the parking garage, that Mr Holmes had waited nearly an entire week to ask him about the Jeff Hope incident. Perhaps he’d been waiting to see how things fell out? Or had Sherlock—no. He cut that thought off before it had fully formed. If Sherlock wanted to know, he’d have just swanned into Greg’s office making demands.

As it was, Greg didn’t have the luxury of dwelling on it, not when there was a case to be solved. Tucking that curiosity away, he turned on his heel and apparated to Diagon Alley, appearing with a small pop outside of Ollivanders.

“Gregory Lestrade,” he heard as soon as he entered the shop. “Mahogany, eleven and a half inches, dragon heartstring. And how is it holding up?”

Greg produced his wand for inspection with a smile. “She’s a beauty, as always. But not the wand I’m here about.”

This wasn’t the first time he’d come to Ollivander to make inquiries. Sometimes it was just faster this way, as the Ministry of Magic still insisted on keeping all of their records on parchment. He took back his own wand and passed the elderly wizard the evidence bag.

“Did you sell this wand? I’m trying to identify the owner.”

Ollivander hummed and tutted, squinting through the plastic bag. “Such a pity, such a pity… yes this is mine. Very fine work, just wasted! Unicorn core… twelve and three quarters inches, made of rowan. Yes, I sold this wand twelve years ago. A lad and his brother came in. Surname Hirst. Yes… Colby Hirst purchased this wand from me. Pity, such a pity to be broken like this…”

The older wizard fondled the broken wand, looking thoughtful; Greg retrieved it quickly from him. “Ta, much appreciated.”

“Yes, of course, Gregory. Take care.”

Colby Hirst. It was more of a start than he’d had ten minutes ago and he’d spent none of his time looking through parchment scrolls. It was worth a jaunt to Diagon Alley, even if he was getting odd looks for his muggle togs. Unfortunately that meant the wand didn’t belong to the victim. He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face and debating whether to head to the Yard for an update or to try and follow the lead he had at the Ministry.

Too long an absence from the Yard would raise suspicions there, or earn him unwelcome consequences. His superiors at the ministry would be furious if he lost his position at NSY and they had to pull in the Obliviators or apply political pressure to keep him on as DI. Unfortunately, the Ministry didn’t see this as reason enough to clue in any higher ups to his position or the existence of the magical world, deeming it too big of a risk. Greg alone carried that burden.

Stuffing the evidence bag back into his inner jacket pocket, he disapparated.

~

“We’ve got positive identification for the victim and the preliminary coroner’s report,” Donovan said, approaching him with a file folder and a confident look. “Elle Bradley, 24, worked as a temp. Final report pending, it looks like natural causes.”

“Good,” Greg nodded. “Next of kin?”

“Haven’t found any yet. No emergency contact listed.”

Greg took the folder, glancing over Sally’s notes and the preliminary report. “I’ll take over looking and wrap this up. It’s nearly a done thing anyway. I want you back on the Lambeth stabbing, see if we can’t drum up any more details from forensics.”

“Yes sir.” She turned on her heel, heading back to her desk, and threw over her shoulder, “And Holmes is in your office!”

He glanced up, spotting the pacing figure through the open blinds and withheld a sigh of annoyance.

“Afternoon, Sherlock.” He didn’t stop, but headed straight to his desk, depositing the file on it and sitting down for the first time all day. “What can I—”

“You haven’t been answering your phone.” Sherlock had none of the restrained manners of his brother, just arrogance and the intelligence to back it up. “I’ve texted you twelve times.”

Greg made a show of checking his phone, which he’d noticed going off earlier in the day and promptly ignored.

“Yeah, you have. All variations of ‘give me a case, I’m bored’. The thing is, I offered you a case yesterday and you turned me down.” He put down his phone and folded his arms.

“That was barely a two. Haven’t you lot solved it by now? Give me something good. Something  _ interesting _ .”

“I can’t just magic up interesting mysteries from thin air,” Greg sighed, feeling exhausted. If he could, he would bring Sherlock in on his magic work—god knew he needed help. But that would be a firing offense for sure. Hell, he might even face Azkaban for letting someone like Sherlock know about the wizarding world. “You turned down the Lambeth stabbing— that’s all I had for you. Go play with your new flatmate, or have you already scared him off?”

Sherlock stopped pacing, halting in front of the desk and leaning in toward Greg. Greg didn’t particularly enjoy having that steely gaze focused on him, but refused to let his own stare falter. The first time he’d met Sherlock, he was sure the man was a legilimens.

“I haven’t and Mycroft knows it, so don’t bother trying to get paid for that titbit during your next tête-à-tête.” He turned and left, greatcoat flapping behind him.

“I’m not taking money from your—” Greg broke off, as Sherlock’s long strides took him quickly out of hearing range. “Bastard.”

Periodically he did meet with the elder Holmes, but those conversations focused on Sherlock's work with the Yard, or the trouble he'd caused Greg, never personal details about him or his life. In fact he’d told the man off that first night for trying to bribe a police officer and voiced his opinion that briefings from acquaintances was a poor way to keep apprised of how Sherlock was doing—as opposed to, say, asking him.

In the years that followed he’d gained a better understanding of why just asking wasn’t so much an option, though the level of contention between the brothers was still beyond him.

Booting up his computer, Greg worked on paperwork until the official pathologist’s report came through, meaning he could neatly tie up the accidental death of Elle Bradley for his boss here. What it didn’t clear up was why she had been found dead in a wizard’s home.

There was no avoiding it, then. He needed to go to the Ministry.

~

The gorgeous eagle-owl was perched on Greg's desk waiting for him, which was a nice reprieve. His perfectly respectable M&S shirt and mac always earned him sideways looks and raised brows, but after a close call early on in his career he didn’t bother transfiguring his clothes into robes and back. It was too much bother, and everyone at the Ministry already knew he was that odd chap who chose to live as a muggle for his job.

A glance toward the front of the department showed Nieves’ door was closed, though the light was on in his office, which was a good sign. He could make another petition to have Donovan initiated so that she could help him with the work. He’d catch him on his way out. In the meantime, he turned to the filing cabinet that held a copy of the parchment listing all living witches and wizards residing in London, their address, biographical information, registered partner, and any interactions they’d had with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Luckily the list was updated automatically and sorted in alphabetical order. There were several names under Hirst, but luckily only one Colby. He was a Ministry of Magic employee, working in the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. Greg pulled a quill from his desk drawer—damn uncomfortable things to write with, in his opinion, but it was the only thing that would work on the spelled parchment, and scribbled his wand type and that Hirst was currently involved in an investigation, signing the note with his initials. The ink flashed red twice before settling in blue as the note appeared on all copies of the list throughout the ministry.

His next order of business was to draft a request to the MLEP Muggle Constable Coordinator to place a guard at Hirst’s address. The sooner they could track the man down, the sooner they would have answers as to why there was a dead muggle in his flat with his broken wand. As he set quill to parchment, a group of people moved through the department, one of whom paused at Greg’s desk.

“Well if it isn’t the department’s finest,” Callidora Avery drawled, perching a hip on Greg’s desk and reaching out to stroke a finger over the dark ear tufts of the eagle-owl that was watching her with interest. Greg was not watching, his eyes on the parchment. “Stopped any muggles from beating each other to death with sticks lately?”

Greg didn’t respond.

“Oh, don’t be mistaken, they are very pointy sticks sometimes,” Avery amended, pouting her lips at him. “Lestrade does such a fine job keeping the idiots in line.”

“I’m sure you have better things to do,” he grunted, as the dark robed group of young men and women that had accompanied Avery tittered. There were a half dozen of them.

“Just showing the fresh meat what will happen to them if they don’t pass their training.” She stood once more, straightening her robes. “But I’ve taken up enough of your time. Wouldn’t want to distract you from your… ah… paperwork.”

The group passed, muttering amongst themselves and Greg’s grip on the quill tightened too much. He snapped it in half. The owl on his desk blinked at him reprovingly.

“I know, I know,” he muttered, casting a quick  _ reparo _ on the quill in question. Aurors like Avery did little to help the inter-department tensions between the Aurors and the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, let alone Greg’s own island of law enforcement. Her disdain for anyone that couldn’t hack five N.E.W.T’s and the additional Auror training or who simply desired a career different than fighting Dark Wizards, made her a less than pleasant co-worker.

He finished his memo and drafted another to be sent directly to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, requesting any and all information on Colby Hirst, and an audience if at all possible. He doubted he’d find the man waiting at his desk the next morning, but there was no harm in asking.

An airplane shaped memo crashed into his desk just as he made his own take flight and Greg was quick to unfold it. He found the pathologist’s true report, scribbled in disconcerting blood red ink. He’d always found Frank Stoke an odd duck, and the little drops of ink that spattered the note only reinforced the thought.

He assumed it was ink. He tried not to think too much on it.

Elle Bradley, a muggle, died from a stunning spell to the chest which exacerbated a heart condition she’d had since birth. Evidence of foul play, but not necessarily an intent to kill.

Had Hirst been trying to protect her, and somehow gotten his wand broken in the skirmish? There hadn’t been evidence of a fight, nor of a third party. He scrubbed his hand through his hair, frowning down at the memo. What was he missing?

Beside him, Hirst’s owl hooted and ruffled her feathers, waking from her doze. It was getting late.

“Let me just—” He waved his wand to duplicate his phone and the images he’d taken with its camera, then sent it down a chute to the MLEP photography unit. “I’ll at least have that in the morning. I’m afraid you have to stay here, love. I’ll be back first thing, though.”

Nieves’ door was open again, which meant he might catch him, but Greg was five steps from his desk when a scroll appeared in front of him in a puff of smoke.

The ward outside of his flat had been triggered. Someone was trying to break in.

With a sigh, he corrected his course, heading back to his desk to grab his things so he could apparate quickly back home. Chances were it was just Sherlock making mischief, but there was always a long shot that it was an actual break in and he’d rather nip that in the bud.

There was a convenient— if a little worrisome— camera blind spot inside his building, in the basement, which he used frequently when he needed to get home in a rush. It didn’t take long to climb the stairs up to the third floor, maybe a full minute since the first ward was breached and he’d been notified. He expected to see Sherlock kneeling in front of his locks.

He did not expect to see Mycroft Holmes’ well dressed assistant sliding something up her sleeve as he rounded the corner. She turned to face him, expression unreadable. Her ever present Blackberry was nowhere to be seen, but at her feet were two reusable shopping bags from Tesco.

He blinked at her, caught entirely off guard.

She smiled.

“Detective Inspector, what fortunate timing.”

“Is it?” He approached and began to unlock his door, not sure if this was a conversation suited to a hallway. “Er—Agatha, right?”

“Anthea.” She picked up the mystery bag and toted it inside after him, without waiting for invitation.

“Did Mr Holmes need something?” He dropped his keys in the bowl by the door and then kept moving to the heavy safe that sat in the bedroom closet. He locked up the files, raising his voice to be heard. “He could have said earlier.”

“No, Mr Holmes requires nothing from you at the moment,” Anthea called back as he closed the safe. He ventured back into the sitting room and found her unloading groceries from the Tesco bags, which she began to put away. “He sends his regards.”

She was done in less than a minute and neatly folded the bags under her arm before offering him a little smirk. “Have a nice night, Detective Inspector.”

She headed for the door.

“Wait—” This didn’t make any sense. Why would Mr Holmes buy him groceries of all things? Why would he buy him anything? “Is this—Why is he doing this? I’m not giving him information on his brother. He knows that.”

Anthea tilted her head to one side, then turned to look at him, just for a moment. “You look tired.”

With that, she left.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck terfs, defund the police, trans women are women: have some escapism.

The next morning dawned unexpectedly sunny. Greg wasn’t expected at the Yard until nine, even with the open stabbing case. Until they had more information there wasn’t much they could do, and leads just weren’t turning up. Unfortunately unless they could identify the victim, there was very little to work with. Right now it seemed very much like a mugging gone off the rails.

Taking advantage of the weather, Greg apparated partway to the Ministry and decided to walk the rest, letting the facts of the case turn over in his mind. Hopefully there would be more answers waiting at his desk, but he was happy to use the brisk air and sunlight to organize his thoughts.

He was cutting through St. James’s Park when he recognized a figure sitting on a bench beside the path. Mycroft Holmes sat there, wearing a suit that probably cost more than Greg’s annual salary, reading a newspaper and with an umbrella in his lap, despite the cloudless skies.

“First groceries, now you’re following me?” Greg said, thumping down onto the bench beside the man. “Should I be worried?”

Mr Holmes lowered the newspaper, a startled look in his eyes. “I—I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to—”

Shit, Greg thought. Way to assume the world revolved around himself. The man was probably just stopping off on the way to work, just like he had done and now he’d made it weird.

“No, I—sorry.” He sighed and offered to shake the man’s hand. “That was a terrible start. Let me try again. Good morning. I didn’t expect to see you here. Doing alright?”

Mr Holmes stared at his hand for a moment as though expecting it to turn into a snake, before finally taking it and giving it a firm shake.

“I’m quite well, thank you. I try to take advantage of the sun when it makes an appearance. I imagine you were doing the same?”

“Yeah,” Greg admitted, hanging his head. “Sorry. It’s been a week, you know. I mean, I assume you know. That’s why you had your assistant run me some groceries?”

“Just a few staples.” Patches of pink were appearing high in the other man’s cheeks. If Greg hadn’t seen them for himself he wouldn’t have believed it. As it was, he wasn’t sure what to make of the observation. “You appeared a bit run down. It was the least I could do.”

“Right,” Greg said, looking away from him and out across the park. There were a number of early morning joggers and folks with dogs making their way through the paths. He wasn’t sure if he was impressed or insulted by the assessment. He could take care of himself. But then, the coffee that Anthea had put in his cupboard had been very good stuff. “Well, thank you, Mr Holmes.”

There was a moment of silence, which stretched on so long that Greg was almost certain the other man wasn’t going to respond. Finally he did, in a very quiet voice.

“Mycroft, don’t you think, Detective Inspector? We’ve known one another for nearly five years. You could be so bold as to call me by my name.”

“Only if you call me by mine.” Greg glanced at him. Their chance meeting had taken on a surreal sort of tone. Mr Holmes—Mycroft—met his gaze and offered a small smile.

“Greg, then,” he said, still speaking quietly. There was no one around to possibly overhear them, but it made Greg lean in, listening closer. The sort of move Greg would have to try with new recruits someday. “I know my brother prevails upon you for all things. I hope you won’t hesitate to ask, should you find yourself in need.”

He pulled a card free from his jacket pocket and offered it to Greg. The quality was fine and small letters shone with his name and a telephone number, but no job title or additional information.

“Can’t imagine your PA enjoyed playing personal shopper for a DI,” Greg said, to cover up the fact that he felt unaccountably touched by the gesture.

“Anthea performs a variety of duties for me and she’s rewarded handsomely for all of them. That number is my personal line. Should you need me directly.”

For the past five years the number in his phone had been always redirected to a scheduler who coordinated with the man’s PA. He immediately took out his phone and added the new number, then, taking a risk, sent a text containing his own name.

“And now you have mine. You probably did before, now I’m thinking about it, but… you know. Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Feeling foolish, he got to his feet. He was making too much of this. It was just a nice gesture, a thank you for looking out for Sherlock and giving him something to do. It didn’t mean anything more than that. Just because he was starved for friendly conversation at work and at home didn’t mean Mycroft was going to fill that gap.

“I should be off. Leave you to your paper. Have a good morning.”

~

There was a stack of new papers waiting for him on his desk when he arrived, and Hirst’s owl perked up when he approached.

“House elves take care of you alright?” he asked, petting her briefly as he glanced over the remains of a meal and a dish of water. “Sorry I can’t let you out, love. You’re technically evidence. Or a witness. One of the two.”

She ruffled her feathers and he took that for acceptance.

Greg took his stack of paperwork and flipped it upside down, drawing off the top to read the oldest first. Confirmation from MLEP Muggle Constable Coordinator to have a body outside the flat until he tracked down Hirst. The second memo was some inter-departmental reminder about appropriate points to apparate to in order to avoid blocking traffic flow. The third was a sheaf of parchment bundled together with string sent on from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.

Colby Hirst, 23, employed with the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee for the past four years. No incidents of note either within his department or involving MLEP. Wand made of rowan, unicorn hair core, twelve and three quarters inches. Hogwarts graduate, four N.E.W.T’s. Parents living in Colchester as shopkeepers, one brother Roman Hirst, who was an Auror in training.

Greg made a mental note to track down Roman, worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and may be able to provide some insight about his brother.

The Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee had, for some reason, thought it pertinent to send along examples of Colby’s work, which he had to wade through before finally reaching the note that he hadn’t shown up at the office yesterday or the day previous. Apparently they assumed he was taking vacation time.

He wondered at the way things were run in that department, that they just assumed one of their own was taking a vacation and he wasn’t in trouble for it. If he tried that, he’d have his ass handed to him by not one but two bosses.

Finally he turned over the last page in the stack, a moving photograph of the wizard in question.

“Shit,” he hissed, getting to his feet immediately so quickly his chair screeched. Hirst’s eagle-owl squawked at him in irritation. From his desk, in the photograph, Hirst stared.

It was the same man, the same unidentified stabbing victim he’d had Donovan following up on. He’d found the John Doe familiar for some reason, but hadn’t been able to place it. A hunch was nothing if there was no way to follow up on it; with what he knew now he could track it back. Hirst had a brother who worked in the Auror Office. Greg had probably passed him in the hall. Hell, he might have even been in the posse Greg had been ignoring the previous night that had accompanied Avery.

“Lestrade!” Nieves’ door slammed open and his yell echoed throughout the department. The handful of chatting MLEP employees standing near the watercooler fell silent and watched as the tall, skinny man stalked from his office. “A word, Lestrade.”

Greg swore beneath his breath and quickly gathered up his parchment, before hurrying inside. The Magical Law Enforcement Patrol Head strolled in after him and slammed the door again, crossing to his desk in two powerful strides.

“Care to explain why the murder of one of our own—a ministry official, no less!—is currently being investigated by someone _other than you_?” He glanced down at a note on his desk. “Colby Hirst, of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. His body is being handled by one Miss Hooper? Can you tell me why that is, Lestrade?”

“I didn’t know he was a wizard, sir,” Greg protested. “He didn’t have a wand, he was in muggle clothes and he was stabbed. I didn’t—”

“We have people to handle this sort of thing, Lestrade! We instituted the Muggle Constable position to support your bloody investigations, and you’re telling me you didn’t even know—”

Greg interrupted Nieves calmly but sternly, trying to say his piece without getting emotional. The last thing he needed to do was yell at his boss. 

“Dispatch didn’t know, the constables responding didn’t know… he didn’t have any magical items on him, sir. I have to investigate every scene I’m sent to and not all of them are—”

Nieves waved him off.

“I don’t care, Lestrade. Fix this. Solve it. You’ve gone soft working with the muggles if you can’t figure out what’s happened to this one. And consider this a warning, too.” The man leaned over his desk, putting himself in Greg’s space. “You’re on thin ice. Now go do your damn job. Dismissed.”

It was only sheer force of will that kept Greg’s face from burning as he left his boss’s office. The conversation at the watercooler died down again as he exited, but picked up at once when he shot the group of off duty patrolmen a sharp look.

Solve this. Right.

He’d been looking at the two cases as separate, having no reason to think them connected before. Hirst, found stabbed in an alleyway. A mugging gone wrong, it had looked like. No identifying information, no wand. Elle Bradley, stunned in Hirst’s home. A muggle, in possession of Hirst’s broken wand.

No witnesses.

No leads.

He checked his watch. And now it was time for him to head to NSY and pry the investigation away from Donovan. Great.

He locked the files in his desk drawer, wondering as he did so if his boss’ knowledge of Hirst’s death meant that the next of kin had been informed. He didn’t want to be the one to do that duty, nor did he particularly want to poke his head back into Nieves’ office and double check. He sighed, and scribbled out a request to meet with Hirst’s brother at noon, sent it off, then apparated to the NSY carpark.

~

He didn’t have time to worry about the Hirst and Bradley case, which was both worrisome and a relief, as almost immediately upon entering the bullpen he was called out to a domestic. It was a clear cut case of self-defence, a mother fending off an attack by her husband against herself and her child. She’d been the one to call the authorities and was still sobbing, clutching her little boy when they arrived.

There were some parts of his job he hated more than others. Calling in the appropriate services and sending the mother away in a squad car was one of them. It soured his stomach to see a bastard preying on those he perceived incapable of defending themselves. At least she’d shown him wrong. There wasn’t much investigating to be done, but quite a lot of paperwork and coordination, which meant he was barely able to skive off at five til noon in order to make it back to his desk at the Ministry.

Roman Hirst was waiting for him and the look of him made Greg do a double take. He was petting his brother’s owl affectionately, sitting in the spare chair and murmuring to her as she pecked his fingers, looking for treats.

He had his brother’s face.

That they were twins seemed like the sort of thing the Ministry might want to include in their files, Greg thought. No wonder Colby’s body had seemed familiar.

“Roman Hirst?” he asked as he approached, offering his hand. “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade. I work here at MLEP as the Muggle Police Representative.”

“This is about Colby, yeah?” The young man in front of him shook his hand briefly, but returned his attention back to the owl. “Shacklebolt told me last night. Are you the one investigating?”

“I am,” Greg nodded. “I have a few questions about your brother. Do you mind speaking with me here, or would you rather go somewhere quieter?”

They headed to a small conference room full of mismatched arm chairs. Greg heated a cup of tea from the abandoned service of an earlier meeting and offered it to the young man.

“When did you last see your brother?”

“Christmas,” Roman told him. “We’re not close, really. We went out to our parents’ home for the holidays. Is this—do you think it’s to do with what happened to Elle?”

“We’ve yet to determine if there’s a connection,” Greg admitted. “I’d like to establish some facts. You and Elle Bradley were registered partners, correct? Do you know why she would have been at his home?”

Roman stared at the table in front of him, hand fisted in his robes. “It was going to be our one year anniversary next month. I don’t know why she would go see him.”

“Did your brother often go out without his wand, that you know of? It wasn’t on him when he was found and he was initially identified as a muggle.”

Roman shook his head.

“Did he have any enemies that you know of? Any disagreements at work, or at home? Either of them?”

Another shake of the head. “Who could want to hurt her?”

Greg hesitated, not wanting to make this any more difficult for the young man. “There was evidence that Miss Bradley suffered a stunning spell. What was the relationship like between your brother and Miss Bradley?”

He had the domestic case on his mind, and wondered if for some reason Colby had stunned the woman, not meaning to kill her. In horror at what he had done perhaps he had broken and thrown away his wand. It didn’t explain why he had died, but it was something.

“No.” Roman shook his head again, more forcefully. “No, I don’t think that could have happened. He liked her fine. He didn’t care that she was a muggle, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr Hirst.” Greg fetched a card from his wallet on automatic and offered it to the man. “If you can think of anything, just give me a call.”

Roman Hirst stared at him blankly.

“Er. An owl would be fine. You—sorry, I do this with muggles mostly. Habit. You keep that, though, it’s got my name so your owl will know where to find me.”

The young man nodded, though he looked a little dubious, and took his leave. Greg slumped into the armchair, drawing a hand over his face. Not much in the way of leads there. Back to the drawing board.

He glanced at his phone and groaned at the time. Not the drawing board, then. Back to NSY before anyone realized how long he’d been gone.

~

It was only when he sat back down at his desk at NSY that he realized he’d failed to eat lunch on his ostensible lunch break. He swore silently to himself and grabbed a few quid for the vending machines, treating himself to a harried one p.m. packet of Smarties. He’d brought with him from the Ministry the developed photos from Bradley’s apartment—tucked safely away in an envelope, away from prying muggle eyes, and in a stack of other files.

In between rounds of paperwork, when he was as sure as possible that he wouldn’t be interrupted, he went over them, looking for anything out of place or unusual. He pulled credit card records for Bradley, though without much hope of turning anything up. Hirst’s financial records were a mystery in and of themselves: that wizards paid everything in coin made their purchases untraceable.

In the middle of the afternoon, DCI Stokes called him into his office.

Charles Stokes wasn’t the type of man to stop for a chat on a good day. He was a dour, thin faced cop that had done his time and worked his way up the ranks through sheer determination. Now he ruled with a steady, if somewhat stern hand.

Greg couldn’t say he liked the man particularly as an individual, but he respected him as a boss. So when Stokes instructed he come in and take a seat, looking at him with an expression of disappointment, he felt incredibly uncomfortable for it.

“Tell me about the Lambeth stabbing,” he said plainly, sitting back in his chair. The leather creaked quietly in the moment of silence that followed as Greg tried to put his thoughts in order.

“Two days ago, Monday morning, a couple of kids cutting through an alley on their way to school found a body, a well dressed mid-twenties male with several stab wounds to the torso. Coroner report confirmed the victim bled out on the scene. There was no ID, no witnesses.”

“CCTV?”

“The footage couldn’t tell us much."

“Two days, and you’ve made no headway identifying the victim?” Stokes' gaze bore a hole into him. “Have you made a call to the public?”

“No sir, we—”

“What about that consulting fellow of yours? He’s proven very helpful on tricky cases in the past.”

“He wasn’t interested, sir, I—”

“He wasn’t interested in solving a murder?” Stokes looked dubious at that, but Greg couldn’t find the words to explain how Sherlock was… Sherlock. “Lestrade, what can I do to help put a pin in this one? Is there some reason it hasn’t got your full attention?”

Yes, Greg wanted to say, because I’m exhausted and running on fumes trying to keep two worlds apart and doing the work of an entire team by myself.

“No sir,” he said instead. “It has, sir. I’ll see it done.”

He let himself out, feeling worse than he had after being shouted out by Nieves. Of course the damn job would make him look bad. He wanted to help people, wanted to see justice done. It stung that his superior thought otherwise.

“Pull yourself together, Lestrade,” he muttered to himself as he trudged back to his office. “Focus.”

There wasn’t anything to be learned from the photos. He’d have to go take a look at Bradley’s apartment. The alleyway Hirst had been found in and the CCTV had been reviewed with a fine tooth comb. He could tell Donovan to go over it again, but that was probably a dead end too.

He stopped by her desk in the bullpen. “Get a pic of the victim out, see if anyone knows him. We won’t get anywhere without a positive ID. Start with the media, then go knocking. He was in the area for a reason.”

He couldn’t tell his colleagues how he’d gotten a positive ID of the man. They’d just have to pursue it the old fashioned way.

He didn’t bother going down to the carpark before disapparating from the building, but left from a stall in the gents and appeared on the landing outside Hirst’s flat, startling the MLEP Constable on duty. The freckled lad jumped so badly he dropped his newspaper, both The Guardian and the Daily Prophet hidden inside of it.

“No visitors, sir,” he said, once he’d scooped them both back up and offered Lestrade a lazy salute. “You manage to find the blighter what did it yet?”

“Working on it,” Greg replied, stepping past him and letting himself into the flat.

It was the work of a moment to undo the precautions he’d laid the previous day, dispelling the illusions and undoing the various transfigurations that had turned the wizard’s residence into something more mundane. Once he’d done so he got down to the more difficult work of poking in every cabinet and digging in every nook and cranny for anything at all that might give him some indication of Hirst’s nature or interests, anything that might have gotten him or his brother's girlfriend killed.

“Couldn’t have kept a bloody diary,” he murmured, poking about in the bedside drawers.

He searched the flat from top to bottom, both physically and with magic, but the only odd thing he came up with was a large flask of potion with a significant portion missing. The flask was unlabelled and there was no potion making equipment elsewhere in the flat, so it must have been bought. He bagged it and sent it with the Constable back to the Ministry for the boys to identify, locking the flat behind him.

When he got back to Scotland Yard, his paperwork had multiplied. Donovan had been hard at work with that all day, generating the correct forms and filing her report on the morning’s domestic. He still had his own report to write and file, as well as a few other housekeeping bits and bobs to keep things in order. From past experience he gauged it would be two or three hours of work at most.

Grateful that here at least most of the work was to be done on the computer, with only some additional bits to be signed in pen—rather than quill—he sat down to work, only to be interrupted some twenty minutes later by a tapping.

He glanced at his door. No one there. No one at the glass wall of his office, either. He frowned as the tapping continued, then followed the sound.

An owl hovered outside the sealed window, a scroll in its beak. It tapped again when he turned and he gestured in frustration that there was no way to open the window, while quickly employing his wand to close his door and the blinds to his office.

The owl tapped again.

Annoyed, Greg vanished the window entirely. He stepped back as a blast of cold air rushed in, tossing his papers into disarray. His guest, a russet coloured screech owl, swept in as well, deposited the note on Greg’s desk, nibbled his ear, and swept out again.

With a flick of his wand Greg restored the glass before snatching up the note. If it had taken the Ministry such a short time, it had to be something--

He stopped short and sank into his chair.

Polyjuice potion.

He’d been lucky in his career, not having to deal with a case that involved Polyjuice. Of course that luck would run out now.

He tucked the note into the envelope containing the magical photographs, took a moment to wallow, and then began setting his office to rights again.

~

At some point Donovan stuck her head in to say she’d done what she could and was heading home. He waved her off with a tired grunt of acknowledgement, barely looking up from the stack of papers he was signing. NSY generated a lot of things to sign. A lot of HR memos, housekeeping nonsense. Sign and pass to the next guy. Announcements about upcoming events, teambuilding seminars; duplicates to what was in his email, but someone had decided that it was worth killing a tree over to stick a copy in his pigeonhole as well. He cleared both types of mail and turned the case round in his mind.

No new answers came to light, but he stayed at his desk waiting for— anything, really. Maybe a tip would come through from the tip line. Someone had seen Hirst, knew his whereabouts before the murder took place. Someone had overheard he and Bradley arguing down at the local.

Grasping at straws, he’d reached out to Bradley’s temp agency to try and find more information about her current assignment, but they’d been passing him along to different folks. Maybe that email would finally come through and give him a lead to chase. As it was he was spinning his wheels.

An indeterminable amount of time later there was another tapping, and he jerked upright out of a doze, looking instinctively over his shoulder to the window before realizing the sound had in fact come from the figure standing in his doorway.

“Do you often stay overnight at the office?” Mycroft Holmes asked, looking as pristine as he had that morning. Greg knew he was more than a bit unkempt in comparison. He wiped his face with one hand, straightening the stack of papers he’d inadvertently been using as a pillow.

“When I need to. How’d you know I was here?”

The question earned him a small smile. “My position allows me certain… privileges with CCTV. As Scotland Yard is one of the places my brother frequents, I tend to keep an eye on it.”

Tomorrow, probably, that would set off alarm bells in Greg’s head. Tonight he was too tired.

“Very Big Brother of you,” he said. “Do you need something?”

“No. I’d like to offer you a ride home. You don’t drive and the busses run infrequently this time of night,” Mycroft replied, matter of fact.

“Why?”

“As far as I understand, due to lower demand.”

Of course Mycroft Holmes would be clever about it. Greg shook his head.

“Why would you offer me a lift? What is this about, these favours? I wouldn’t take your money, so now--”

“No,” Mycroft interrupted, moving from the doorway. Beyond him the bullpen and the rest of the floor was dark. Everyone had gone home. He took a seat in the chair in front of Greg’s desk, umbrella in hand. “This isn’t a bribe. You’re still very stuck on the fact that I offered you one five years ago and I suppose I never apologized for doing so. I apologize.”

Greg stared at him.

“Sherlock was at that time in the habit of acquainting himself with the type of people who would have accepted. Making that offer was the quickest way of judging the character of the people with whom he surrounded himself.” Mycroft wasn’t looking at him as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the handle of his umbrella, which he twisted this way and that. Greg would have almost said he was fidgeting if it weren’t for the fact that this was Mycroft Holmes. Surely Mycroft Holmes didn’t fidget.

“I’m not trying to bribe you, Detective Inspector. I’m trying to thank you.” Mycroft finally looked up and met his gaze, the blue grey of his eyes soft despite the resolve in his voice. Though Greg didn’t voice it, his confusion must have come through in his expression and the other man shook his head, chuckling. “Yes, really.”

He stood once more, stepping around the side of Greg’s desk and closer to him.

“February 2nd, 2005,” he said , speaking clearly. “My brother arrived at one of your crime scenes quite high and you ejected him, as per your agreement. As you had every right to do. February 3rd, you solved the case--”

“Yeah, I do that on occasion,” Greg interrupted, though he had an inkling now where the story was going. “I’m not as incompetent as everyone seems to believe.”

Mycroft’s gaze snapped to him again, and he looked very much like his brother for a moment, with all of his laser focus.

“Not at all,” he said. “You’re a very competent detective, and more. As I said, February 3rd, you solved the case and sought out my brother in his home.”

“If you can call that filthy flat on Montague Street a home.” Mycroft acknowledged the interruption with a smile before continuing.

“You saved his life that night. Most likely you saved it well before then, indulging his interest and luring him toward sobriety one step at a time. But that night you saved it quite literally. If it weren’t for your kindness, my baby brother would no longer be in this world.”

Mycroft offered him his hand.

“You thanked me that morning,” Greg said, looking up at him. “At the hospital.”

“Sherlock’s life is worth more than words, don’t you think?”

“Course it is,” he agreed. “But you don’t owe me anything. I don’t want to be owed. Didn’t do it for that. There’s no debt between us.”

Mycroft offered again with his hand, which Greg still hadn’t shaken. “You’re a good man, Greg Lestrade. No debt, then. I’d still like to offer that ride home, though.”

Greg hauled himself up and shook with him, unable to refuse.


End file.
